


Who Decides Who The Heroes Are Anyways?

by TheMipstaz



Series: We Are Still Breathing [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Allison Argent, F/F, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:11:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3240905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMipstaz/pseuds/TheMipstaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which, for Allison, one of the hardest things in the world is to realize that she has gone wrong somewhere, that she's lost her way. It's to find that somehow she's not the hero she thought she was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It always kills me how people seem to forget that time when Allison went darkside. Like, I love sunshiny and dimpled Allison as much as anyone, but sometimes I'm in the mood for some of the pent up anger and sadness underneath. You feel me?
> 
> Anyways, I've always loved the idea of what would've happened if Allison never recovered from losing her mother, if she had never been brought back by Scott and the rest of the gang. What if she had just lost herself so utterly in the life her family wanted her to lead, in the connotation behind her last name? It's an interesting "what if" in my opinion. 
> 
> This was inspired by a couple gifsets. Namely, [this](http://rainbow-in-the-soul.tumblr.com/post/106943482437/be-the-person-you-needed-when-you-were-younger), [this](http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fraisesomehale.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F107826306538%2Fshe-needed-a-hero-so-thats-what-she&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNGWQILEumzeThilczFDbsDmXbHu6A), and [this](http://nevergooutofstiles.tumblr.com/post/109108097000/bell-clarke-she-slept-with-wolves-without-fear).

_I am not afraid_. Allison drew in a nearly silent breath, tightening her hold on her string as her hands steadied the bow. _I am not scared_. Her sharp eyes tracked her target down on the ground from her vantage point up in the fork of a sturdy tree, checking one last time her arrow would fly true. _I am not ashamed_. With a familiar _twang_ , she released the string and relished in how it effortlessly sliced through the air, penetrated the back, and sprouted from the chest of the rogue werewolf roaming through her woods.

He roared in pain, staggering forward slightly and dropping to his knees. Scarlet blood, darkened by the shadows of the night, ran in streaming rivulets down his bare chest and back to drip onto the ground. He was naked, having just shifted from a full wolf back into human form.

An alpha would be harder to kill, more troublesome; but Allison was up to the challenge.

Neatly dropping from her perch, Allison straightened up and nocked her bow once more, the new arrowhead gleaming in what little light the nearly new moon gave off. _Quick and painless_ , she reminded herself. _Humane_. 

The wolf snarled at her as she took aim, lip curled up to reveal glinting fangs. His dark hair was messy and his eyes glowing coals, incendiary in the cool night as a growl rumbled from his throat. Despite his fierce display, Allison couldn’t help but notice his pitiful condition. All of his ribs were visible, lean and wiry muscle flexing while his body convulsed slightly as the wolfsbane worked its way into his system. His face was gaunt and dirty, a sheen of sweat already coating his forehead as his weakened body struggled to fight the poison entering his bloodstream.

“ _We hunt those who hunt us,_ ” she murmured, tongue easily rolling over the French words. It was a ritual, repeating what she had been taught from birth before every kill to remind herself of what she was doing. It had been her Aunt Kate and her grandfather who had taught it to her. Strangely enough, her dad never once said it before a kill despite Kate insisting that it was tradition.

At first it had been hard, repeating her family’s mantra when she had no family left. Tears used to stream down her face before every death blow as she forced herself to remember everything she had lost. With every fallen super—every dead werewolf and vampire and ghoul—Allison was tormented by memories of her father’s death in the crossfire of two rival witch covens, her mother’s supposedly honorable suicide, her aunt’s murder by a nameless wolf, her grandfather’s death by an abomination called a kanima.

But now, as she gazed upon this wolf who continued to defy her even though his death was imminent, Allison felt nothing. She felt no remorse or sympathy for the creature whose life she was going to take. There was no empathy, no ache in her chest like she would’ve once felt. All she knew was the satisfaction that she would be upholding the land her parents had established as their own.

Beacon Hills was, and always would be, Argent territory. And eventually, no matter how many supernatural deaths it took, everyone would know it. This wolf would just be another stepping stone, something worthless to be forgotten in a few days. Her family’s reputation had been tarnished once word of all the deaths had gotten around. Other hunters and supers alike derided the fallen remains of the Argent legacy. That was until they met Allison.

She raised her bow, drawing the string back, and took a deep breath. 

“Touch him and your girlfriend dies.”

The voice came from behind her, so rather than completely turn her back on the wolf like an idiot, she pivoted slightly so she could see the alpha on her left and the source of the voice on her right, toward which she pointed her arrow. Allison watched with narrowed eyes as a boy limped from the shadows.

Perhaps in mid-twenties, he was just as battered as the wolf, mere skin and bones and looking more dead than alive. He clearly favored his right leg and there were streaks of blood on his neck and ripped jeans. But the boy’s eyes were bright, glittering dangerously in the night. Sometimes, when the moon hit just right, Allison couldn’t help but wonder if his eyes didn’t look a little bit red too.

Nevertheless, what caught her attention most was the girl standing frozen in his grip as he pressed a knife to her throat. It was Lydia, her green eyes wide with fear.

Without even thinking, Allison darted behind the wolf. Slinging her bow across her back in one fluid motion, she wrenched his head back with a handful of hair. Swapping her arrow for the knife sheathed at her waist and holding the blade to the wolf’s throat in an imitation of the boy’s pose, she calmly said, “Let her go.”

“Sure,” grinned the boy lazily, “if you let me and my wolf walk free. Oh, and give us some of the wolfsbane that’s running rampant in his veins right now.”

“And why would I do that?” Allison dug her dagger in until a small stream of blood trickled down the wolf’s neck. “What’s stopping me from slitting his neck right here and now?”

“The same thing that’s preventing me from killing your pretty friend,” the boy snarked back easily.

“You won’t do it.” Allison knew she was taking a risk, but she was also going off her own experience of how hard the first kill was, how hard it was to actually end another life. She remembered how she’d made the mistake of looking straight into the eyes of the rogue vampire that had been roaming the Beacon Hills. After that, she made sure to avert her gaze. The resulting months of nightmares had just been so unnecessary. 

“You sure you want to risk her life on a bluff, honey?” There was no hesitation in his voice or movements as he delicately trailed the knife across Lydia’s cheek. She winced as it barely split her skin.

Her heartbeat skyrocketed as she saw the fine cut blossom on Lydia’s face. “Enough,” Allison snapped, proud of the fact that her voice remained steady. “Fine. Your wolf for her.”

“And wolfsbane,” he added.

She slowly nodded in acquiescence. Releasing the wolf, she stepped back and watched him stagger over to the boy, who hadn’t released Lydia yet. “The wolfsbane,” he repeated firmly.

Slipping a tiny vial from her pocket, Allison tossed it toward him. Letting go of Lydia, he effortlessly snatched it out of the air despite the dark. “A pleasure doing business with you,” he drawled, clutching the bottle tightly in his hand.

Lydia stumbled toward her, wobbly in her heels for time in Allison’s memory. Her eyes were damp and her lip trembled, obviously shaken from being held at knife point. A jolt of worry lanced through Allison, who all but ran toward her. “Leave,” Allison said coldly as she hugged Lydia closely to her. She carefully examined the shallow cut on Lydia’s cheek before leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.

“Are you okay?” she murmured, chin resting on Lydia’s head and taking comfort from her scared, uneven breathing. Lydia was alive.

“I’ve been better,” Lydia chuckled wetly, pressing her face against Allison’s chest.

“Fine,” the boy shrugged. He wrapped one arm around the wolf’s waist, probably more for show than anything seeing as the wolf easily had twenty pounds of muscle on him despite its debilitated state. “But before we go, I just want to say, you remind me a lot of her.”

Allison said nothing, just continued to watch him and run her hand comfortingly through Lydia’s hair. Lydia tightened her arms around Allison.

“Of Kate,” he elaborated. “You’re a spitting image of her. And trust me, that’s not something you should be proud of.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Allison hissed, forgetting herself. Forgetting that there was no way this strange boy could possibly know anything about her family, about Beacon Hills. He was nobody, probably just passing through, so why did his words suddenly make her gut twist uncomfortably?

“I know a couple things. I know you’re just someone who lost their way, same as the rest of us.” The boy tilted his head a bit, gaze searching. “I know you like to think you became some sort of hero, that you’re doing some great and sacred duty to your family or some shit. But we both know that’s wrong. Or did you conveniently forget that your family’s entire existence is based around killing sentient beings who haven’t hurt anyone?”

“What are you talking about?” Allison demanded, but her voice trembled. Her confidence wavered.

“Do you not remember the freak Hale fire? Killed eleven people.” The boy’s lips twisted into an ugly sneer and his eyes shone with anger and disgust. “Yeah, it wasn’t an accident. It was arson designed to kill the family of werewolves living there. Except,” his voice grew tight, “it wasn’t just wolves—who, by the way, never hurt anyone. There were humans in that family, too. Kids that will never grow up because of the Argents.” Bitterness tainted the way his lips curled up in a too sad, too angry bastardization of a smile. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t think werewolves are the monsters of Beacon Hills.”

Allison felt the breath punch out of her. Because she remembered that night, remembered Aunt Kate not being at dinner while her mom told her that she was taking care of family business. And the next day, nearly the whole Hale family had been pronounced deceased because of faulty wiring in their home. It had been the talk of the town for years, nothing short of a tragic mystery. 

“Who are you?” she whispered, suddenly feeling hollow and bare like he was stripping away everything she had shielded herself with. He was ripping away the untarnished image of her family that Allison had wrapped herself in for so long. In a few sentences, he was crumbling away the walls she had spent years building.

“I’m not quite sure.” The boy hefted the wolf’s arm over his shoulder a little more securely. “Not yet. But at least I’m not pretending to be something I’m not. At least I’m not afraid to sully the memory of a family who ruined me.”

And as her defenses fell away, disintegrated into dust, Allison felt everything she had been scared of for so long: the fear, the uncertainty, the pain. She had spent the years after her family’s death doing everything to uphold her surname. She had killed and murdered and lied her way to where she was in the name of upholding the infamous Argent code. She had been blinded by grief and anger and loyalty to something she didn’t even know; she had only been about halfway through her training before her entire family was torn away one after another.

And now she was questioning everything she did, was afraid that she had somehow lost herself in her desperate attempt to make up for everything. For the times when she had blown off her dad to spend an afternoon making out with a boy she didn’t remember the name of. For the night Allison had snuck out to go to Lydia’s party only to find her mother dead the next morning. The guilt had blocked out everything except the glorified pedestal Allison had put her family on in repentance for her sins.

“ _Leave_!” she screamed as her entire world came crashing down around her ears.

The knife left her fingers before Allison even realized what she was doing. In an instant, the wolf lurched in front of the boy and batted the blade away, growling in pain when it cut his hand. He swayed on the spot, paler than death, but still managed a roar that shook the earth. A protective fire burned his dull eyes as his lips drew back in a snarl despite the agony that must’ve been coursing through his body.

“You took away his entire family,” the boy said softly, resting one hand on the wolf’s shoulder comfortingly. “You’re not going to take me from him too.

Allison, still reeling, was breathless as he continued, “You asked me who I was. Six years ago, the sheriff of Beacon Hills was killed. Died instantly from an arrow to the heart. They say it was a hunting accident, but every super knows it was because he and his son were friendly with the local werewolves, something the Argents just couldn’t condone. Six years ago, his son and the last remaining Hale disappeared.” A small smile curled at the edge of the boy’s mouth. “It’s been a long time, Allison.”

“ _Stiles_?” Allison breathed out.

And then he was walking away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read/commented/left kudos :] Hit me up on [tumblr](http://www.nevergooutofstiles.tumblr.com)!

Allison had done many things in her life but at the moment her biggest achievement was holding herself together while her whole world collapsed. She shoved the maelstrom of emotions threatening to tear her apart at the seams to the back if her mind, grit her teeth, and focused in what was important now. Like getting Lydia home before the universe decided to throw any more shit their way.

Shrugging off her jacket and draping it around Lydia's shoulders to protect against the midnight chill, Allison pressed one more reassuring kiss to her girlfriend's head before murmuring, "Hey, it's been a long night.” And wasn't _that_ the understatement of the century. “Let's go."

Making their way out of the preserve and driving back to the house was a mindless blur Allison couldn’t recall by the time she was pulling up the driveway. She was already on autopilot and knew that if she stopped too long to think about it, she would lose it completely. She couldn't do that while Lydia still needed her. But despite the part of Allison that was anxious to get Lydia safely home as soon as possible, she couldn't help but pause to glance at her house, at _their_ house.

The first time Allison realized that it had been left to her all those months ago, mortgage-free courtesy of her parents’ life insurance, she broke down and cried. Because how could she possibly fill the empty halls still ringing with the ghost of her dad’s laugh and the smell of her mom’s cooking? How could she bear to be alone in a place so alive with aching memories? The house represented everything Allison had lost, a constant reminder of what she used to have.

But Lydia had been there, had patiently held her until Allison was out of tears. “We could sell it,” she’d then pointed out. “Get you a smaller apartment.”

But, in spite of the bit of her that was destroyed by the thought of living in the same home sans her family, a larger part of Allison was appalled at the idea of getting rid of it. “No,” she had hiccuped, wiping her eyes. “I…I don’t think I can lose it too. Not yet.”

She’d half expected Lydia to scoff at her, snap at her to make up her damn mind. Instead, Lydia’s face had just softened in sympathy before she shrugged and said, “I’ll move in with you then. Mom doesn’t care what I do, and Dad’s usually out of town for business anyways.” Her tone was flippant, but Allison didn’t miss the ever present and bitter anger there.

Sometimes, Allison wondered if Lydia would ever forgive her parents for forcing her to grow up by herself. The fiery redhead would always vehemently insist, “They didn’t do anything for me. I had to do it all. _I_ learned archaic Latin. _I_ discovered it was okay to find girls attractive. _I_ realized that Jackson would never change, would never be the perfect boyfriend to match the perfect image he wants everyone to see. I did everything, Allie.” And if her voice cracked a little when she spat out these confessions, well Allison wasn’t going to tell.

So, Allison did the only thing she could when Lydia found herself struggling to live up to the iron persona she’d built for herself, the Lydia she wanted everyone else to admire and fear; she hugged Lydia fiercely and murmured, “Thank you.” Because that was how they worked. They held each other up on the days they felt like sinking, on the days it would be easier to sink, on the days that even traded _I love you_ ’s couldn’t make better.

Now, Allison looked at the dark house silhouetted against the fading moon overhead as the last vestiges of night bled into milky dawn, streaking the sky with the first rays of morning light. It no longer sent a heart-wrenching jolt through her chest looking at her childhood home. The jagged memory of the past life it used to remind her of was slowly being cushioned among the new one she and her girlfriend were creating for themselves: one where new love healed old pain. It was definitely a lot more than Allison ever thought she’d ever have again.

Allison’s hands shook as she let go of the steering wheel. But Lydia laced their fingers together and offered a small, comforting smile. Allison squeezed back her thanks.

Once again moving mechanically, face slack as her eyes glazed over blankly, Allison led Lydia through the front door to their bedroom and the attached master bathroom. She neatly stacking her hunting gear in one corner—something her dad had drilled into her head over and over again until it was unthinkable to do anything. Then she was methodically stripping off clothing that stank of fear and blood.

Allison refused to allow herself to feel anything, knowing it would be like breaking open a dam if she did. Now was not the time to crumble into a sobbing mess. Instead, she focused on turning the shower knob to a scalding temperature and helping Lydia peel off her stained dress.

 _Probably ruined_ , Allison thought idly as she observed the dark brownish-red discoloring the bright floral patter. It was easier this way, to view everything clinically and from a distance. She vaguely hoped her girlfriend wasn’t too attached to it.

Then she ushered Lydia under the steady spray of water, watching it turn first scarlet then a light pink as it swirled down the drain. Yet Allison still felt unclean, felt the impromptu reunion with Stiles making her skin itch. Dragging her mind away from that dangerous path, Allison closed her eyes and ran a hand through her sopping wet hair, turning to face the spray for a moment.

 _Breathe_ , she thought to herself. _Just breathe_.

“Allie?” Lydia whispered as she stood on tip toes to reach over Allison’s shoulder to grab the shampoo from the shower rack. Allison didn’t reply, allowing Lydia to lather up her hair and taking comfort in how mundane and familiar the gesture was. It was soothing to feel Lydia pressed up against her back, a solid presence as water sluiced down Allison’s front. Steam fogged the glass shower door, hiding them from the rest of the world like their own brief pocket of peace where nothing hurt.

“Don’t,” Allison choked out after a moment when she realized Lydia had finished, slender fingers no longer massaging shampoo into her scalp. “Just don’t. Not yet. Please.”

Lydia didn’t ask again.

Once the last of the bubbles had spiraled down the drain, Allison stepped out from under the spray to let Lydia rinse off too. She turned to catch Lydia’s green eyes looking at her worriedly. “Hey,” Allison said softly and took her hand and standing so they were chest to chest, bare skin brushing. “I’m okay.” She brushed her lips over Lydia’s knuckles, brushing aside some of her soaking wet strands behind her ear. “We’re okay.” Cupping Lydia’s cheek in one hand, Allison swiped a careful thumb over the shallow cut from Stiles’ knife. Her other hand rested on Lydia’s hip as she leaned down to press their foreheads together, almost nose to nose.

“I know,” Lydia breathed back, gazing up through damp eyelashes. A drop of water traced her soft, pink lips as they rested there together. “Believe me, I know.” In delicate moments like these, Allison could always count on Lydia to be the best damn girlfriend in the world.

The rest of the time passed quickly, just perfunctory scrubbing. It said something about the gravity of the situation that even running a soapy hand between her girlfriend’s legs and over her breasts didn’t do anything for Allison. However, she did make sure to give Lydia a quick kiss as she turned off the shower. _Thank you._

Soon they were out and Lydia was rummaging around in the bathroom drawer while Allison flicked on the hair dryer. Lydia stuck a toothbrush in her mouth before going to town on taming Allison's wet curls, which she knew would debatably be the hardest thing to deal with that night. Would it kill her girlfriend to tie her hair up like any sane person so it didn’t get all tangled? Honestly.

Next, with a neat bun on top of Allison’s head and Lydia leaving her own half-damp hair down to dry the rest of the way naturally, they left to grab suitable night clothes from the dresser. It was so ordinary it made a scream boil up inside her, but Allison bit it back and tried to bury it under the soothingness of steady routine. While she threw on an overly large shirt that brushed her mid thighs, Lydia slipped into shorts and a loose night shirt.

Finally, when there was nothing else to distract her, no more humdrum things to lose herself in, Allison let out a faint warning, “Lyds?” before letting go.

Remember when she said Lydia was the best girlfriend anyone could ask for? Allison wasn’t lying.

Lydia was long used to how Allison’s modus operandi. She knew how Allison would push herself to the breaking point and then stay on edge until she found a safe place to drop like a fucking stone from her adrenaline high. It was far from healthy, leading to a long history of anxiety and even panic attacks subsequent to her family’s death. But Lydia also knew it was Allison’s coping mechanism, knew better than to take that away from her since Allison had refused to go to a therapist (“Ah yes, Lydia, let me just go tell the school counselor about werewolves. Should I mention I’m descended from a long line of ancient werewolf hunters while I’m at it?). As a result, their bedroom—one of the few places Allison considered a safe space—saw a good portion of Allison’s “crashes,” as Lydia had come to call them. And this was one of the worst ones she’d seen for a while.

“Oh God, Lyds.” Allison fell to her knees in the middle of the room, which had begun to spin. Her breathing grew short and labored, the air seeming to leave her lungs as she whispered, “Stiles. We saw _Stiles_.” And then suddenly her oxygen-deprived body decided it would be a good idea to laugh while black spots danced before her eyes. Tears ran down her face as Allison’s sobs warred with hysteria.

Because seeing Stiles again was more than just a stunning blow from her past. In that moment, Allison had realized just how fucking lost she was. Her throat convulsed wordlessly and she threatened to shake apart. Squeezing damp eyes shut, Allison didn’t even try to reign in her frantic, hiccuping breaths. As her head spun with the gravity of everything finally settling, the night swallowed her anguish as it had so many times before.

And, like so many nights before, Lydia held her tightly like she was the most important thing in the world. Because maybe Allison _was_. Maybe she—this fucked up, broken ghost of a girl that had lost everything—was the most precious thing to Lydia Martin, who could make the world her bitch with a snap of her perfectly manicured fingers. Maybe Allison mattered to Lydia Martin, who would be taking the world by storm if she didn’t have to stick around to care for her pathetic girlfriend. The thought, although not a new realization by far, was enough to send her into another downward spiral of shame and self-disgust.

But then Lydia choked out, “I know. I can’t believe we saw him either,” and Allison began to struggle from the edge that she was dangerously nearing. She forced herself to take deeper breaths to battle the tightness she felt in her chest. It was selfish for her to fall apart and force her girlfriend to pick her up when Lydia was obviously just as shaken.

Blinking slowly to reorient herself, Allison found herself in cradled in the V of Lydia’s legs as they sat propped against the wall. Exhausted, Allison linked their fingers and slid down a little so she could rest her head back on Lydia’s chest. She closed her eyes, steeling herself, before voicing her deepest fears that had been planted by Stiles’ accusatory words. “Do you think he’s right? Do you think I’m in the wrong with everything I’ve done?”

Lydia was silent for the longest time, tracing nonsensical patterns on Allison’s palm. Allison felt her stomach drop out, suddenly realizing that Lydia’s answer, her opinion, mattered so fucking much.

“I think,” Lydia said slowly, “that the life of a hunter will never be as black and white as Stiles likes to think it is. He wasn’t here when we were doing all we could just to survive. Hell, he ran away, Allie. He left and we stayed; he lost the right to tell us what is right and wrong the second he left Beacon Hills. This place is _ours_.” Her voice was hard and unforgiving, but Allison could still detect the anguish beneath it. She knew Lydia had struggled with Stiles abandoning them more than she would ever admit, had floundered as every stable aspect of their lives was ripped away one by one.

“Do you think he’ll come back?”

Lydia breathing stuttered at the whispered question, at the implication behind Allison’s words: _will anything ever be the way it was? Will we ever be okay again?_

“No,” she answered quietly. “I don’t think he will.”

Allison nodded. She wasn’t sure if she’d expected any other answer.

Outside, the world grew light and the birds sang their tribute to the rising sun. Soft golden light brushed the Argent house as the two girls inside clung to each other because they had no one else. Though neither was willing to say it, they were both straining to hear a howl—a wolf signaling his location to the pack—that would never come.


End file.
